The Story Beneath The Story
by Kathey27
Summary: Derek lies still beneath him, eyes concentrated on the human as he continues to map out words and sentences. He says nothing, simply leans back and doesn't bother making bodily threats. Those stopped after the third time he threw Stiles over the kitchen counter and fucked him until both of them couldn't move. Details. Whatever. Series of unconnected stories. Happy birthday Becky!
1. tinkering

**A/N: Okay peoples, this little piece of work here is dedicated to the amazing person that is Becks Rylynn on her birthday today! I can honestly say she is one of the best people I've ever had the pleasure to get to know and not only is she funny and brilliant she is also a great writer and one of my favorites on this site. Her writing is pure magic and her characterization is always spot on. Lots of love Becky and try and be happy today, birthdays can be fun when done right!**

**I really hope you enjoy Becky and that this Stiles/Derek goodness helps brighten your day.**

**(Oh and I'm not really sure how old Derek is but I'm pretty sure he's not younger than twenty-four).**

**(And I now apparently have a thing for writing fics where things are written down on skin…)**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Teen Wolf, Derek and Stiles would be doing it in the jeep every day just so Scott could smell it and be disturbed.**

**xxxxxx**

"The fact of his pulse,

the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire

not to disturb the air around him.

Everyone could see the way his muscles worked,

the way we look like animals,

his skin barely keeping him inside."

- Richard Siken, _Little Beast_**  
**

**xxxxxx**

**tinkering:**

Stiles has a thing for fixing. It's what he does. Everyone knows this. He likes to fix things, he likes to fix people and help them; he likes to be needed.

He's the person Scott goes to for…well, everything.

He's the person Allison goes to when she needs to complain about Scott.

He's the person Lydia does her homework and magic with.

He's the person Boyd actually uses more than five words with.

He's the person Erica uses when she needs someone to yell with.

He's the person Isaac talks to when the nightmares come back.

He's the person Jackson tells his secrets to in the dead of the night followed by a "if you tell anyone this freak…"

He's someone to all of them. Except Derek (those times in the kitchen don't factor in). Because…well Stiles isn't really even all that sure the stupid alpha has anyone really (he doesn't count not really, technically…). Not since Laura. (_Not since Kate_, is what he doesn't dare even think).

So, this is what he does:

When the sun goes down and everyone else is asleep in the house, Stiles slips into Derek's bedroom. (Because yeah, they now apparently have big werewolf sleepovers).

He creeps slowly and quietly, making sure to keep his steps as light as possible and his heart rate as normal as ever. He slides into the sheets, onto the werewolf's chest and drags off Derek's wife beater. There's a beat of silence and stillness where neither of them does anything but stare at the other and it's a testimony to how fucked up Stiles' life is that he feels totally natural straddling a twenty-six year old. (Or it could be the new things he does in the dark…whichever).

He places his hands down on the smooth chest of the older man slowly, running his fingertips down the planes and curves of the chest before him.

Derek lies still beneath him, eyes concentrated on the human as he continues to map out words and sentences. He says nothing, simply leans back and doesn't bother making bodily threats. (Those stopped after the third time he threw Stiles over the kitchen counter and fucked him until both of them couldn't move. Details. _Whatever_).

"What are you doing?" Derek whispers three minutes in because they never speak to each other any louder these days. (Always half pained moans, low steady growls and strangled prayers breathed against hot necks).

"Washing away your scars." Stiles allows this answer to be accompanied by a quick shrug.

Derek is used to his crazy enough by now to simple respond with: "I'm not one of your pieces Stiles. You can't tinker me back into place."

Stiles presses down harder on the chest before him, his mind moving at warp speed, desperate to fix the (beautiful) blemishes before him. (so, so broken and so, so lonely. but he can work with that; _this_ he can fix, unlike his mom's disease and his dad's loneliness and allisonscott issues and lydia's insecurities and isacc's memories and erica's fear and boyd's anxiousness and jackson's past and – ). He shushes the werewolf.

Stiles spends the next half hour tracing down confessions and promises and words of strength and power against his secret lover's skin. He rewrites forgotten, washed away verses and maps out how he wants the rest of this to go, where he hopes it could go. When he's done, instead of kicking him out as per usual the alpha flips them over and holds the teenager close, nose pressed against the curve of his neck.

(Stiles ignores the trembling).

(Derek will deny it later, but Stiles catches a tear sliding down the side of his face)


	2. all i ask of you

**A/N: I am an avid Glee fan and was relistening to Blaine's new version of "Teenage Dream" and this popped up in my head. That's the only explanation I have for this.**

**Anywho, like always, hope you enjoy and that the Stiles/Derek goodness helps anyone with their day!**

**Oh, and HAPPY HALLOWEEN! EAT CANDY, WATCH MOVIES, GET SCARED!**

**Disclaimer: If I owned anything Tyler and Dylan would stop teasing us and tell the writers to just make it happen already!**

**xxxxxx**

"Your feet were burning so I put my hands on them, but my hands

were burning too."

- Richard Siken, _I Had a Dream About You_**  
**

**xxxxxx**

**all i ask of you:**

Stiles walked up to the Hale residence with a single cupcake cradled in his hands.

He had spent exactly six hours the night before trying to perfect the mini treat because it had to be just the right shade of vanilla and had to have just the right amount of chocolate sprinkled on top and had to be just the right size for the stupid sourwolf.

In retrospect, this was Isaac's fault (stupid lonely gangly werewolf trying to steal his best friend – ).

This was Isaac's fault because if the stupid wolf had never let it slip that Hale's birthday was coming up Stiles wouldn't have had to fight off the almost compulsive need to celebrate it (remembers his mother and how much she loved birthdays and how they'd bake together and spend hours teasing each other and cleaning up and – ).

He failed. Miserably. Obviously.

He spent the better part of his _Friday_ night trying to bake the most amazing cupcake for the older menace because…well, the poor guy had no one except the pack and Peter (_not_ even going there) and they obviously weren't going to be doing anything for him. (and also maybe the fact that they both had almost no family left and when sundays' got really lonely, derek was the one he hanged around but _shhh_ don't let scott know).

Before he could even try to knock on the decayed door, it opened and for a few seconds he was sure the cupcake was going to fall and give him a heart attack because no matter how used he'd gotten to Derek's stealth, that door thing would never stop terrifying him and resulting in the flailing of limps.

"Dude!" He gasped breathlessly, pressing the poor minicake to his chest in relief. "That is still _so not okay_! I thought we had a talk about it! I mean, granted you were – "

"Stiles."

"Right. Sorry." He cleared his throat at the near homicidal look on the alpha's face, remembering that he didn't have the patience to deal with Stiles unless it was a life-or-death situation or a Sunday.

"Do I even want to ask what you're doing here?" The unspoken _on a day not Sunday _part was heard by Stiles just fine.

Stiles could only push his hands forward and offer the cupcake in means of an answer.

"_Stiles_."

"Look sourwolf, I know you want to pretend you're all big and tough and don't need any love but we both know you love vanilla and since you're turning the big two seven, I figured, you know, cupcake! And you better eat it because this took me for freakin' ever to finish and my dad was super suspicious and just because he knows now doesn't mean he trusts you and he probably thinks you've – "

"Oh my – _Stiles_."

"Shutting up."

Derek let out a low, steady breath and it was then that it hit Stiles that holy fudge butter, the werewolf wasn't wearing a shirt. And he was wet. Oh so very wet. Stiles resisted the urge to lick the chest before him because that would just make things _weird_ considering just last month he'd experienced his _holy storm troopers I might be into guys_ freak out. Figures Derek would be his first guy-crush. Anderson Cooper did not count. Everyone found that man hot. Fact.

"In."

Stiles followed in after the grouchy wolf and it wasn't his fault if he didn't stop himself in time from watching the way the water trickled down his back. _Okay Stilinski, okay, you are in the presence of a wereperson. You need to calm down or else he will smell how much you want him and then there will be no more Sunday movie nights and then you'll be all alone because Scott has Isaac now and then –_

"Stiles."

He snapped out of his thoughts to catch the sight of Derek glaring at him from the kitchen counter. He offered a hesitant smile in response and gently set the cupcake down. "Do you have a lighter?"

"Sti – "

"You need a new catchphrase. Lighter please." When did he grow balls?

Either Derek was ignoring his heart beat or he just didn't notice how badly it started up whenever the sourwolf so much as moved but the next thing said wolf did was reach up on the counter, muscles exposed and all, and rummage around for said lighter.

Stiles dropped his eyes down onto the lieu of a birthday cake and waited until the lighter was placed before him. With shaking hands he lit the almost squished inside candle and slide the cupcake over, a small smirk overtaking his face. "_Happy birthday to_ – "

"Really?"

Only the slight exasperated tone to Derek's voice kept Stiles from continuing on in his serenade. Before he could think up another witty comment to keep the dry conversation going, Derek was leaning forward and breathing onto the flickering flame. Stiles paused and couldn't find it in himself to look away from the utter loss and pain etched across the man's face. So much heartache and burn and torture; it was a look he knew all too well. It was the same look he'd had for months after his mother's death.

"After my mom died, I didn't celebrate my birthday for three years." Foot. In. _Mouth_.

Derek didn't bother to look up from the candle, eyeing it intensely.

"So…it's okay. If you don't want to celebrate. I mean I can leave if you want. Just skedaddle out of here. But you know it's okay if you want to…celebrate. It doesn't get better, I know it doesn't, no matter what anyone says but it sometimes helps to not be alone which is stupid because you're like the king of being alone and I know that but…you could, not be. Alone that is. I could stay." Insert word babble here.

The only sound for a good while was their almost matched breathing and screw Scott to the deepest pits of Hell for refusing to come along because "dude, I think derek might actually try to legitimately eat me".

Then: "Laura tried to get me to celebrate while we were in New York. We ended up watching the entire fifth season of Buffy instead and drowning in vanilla ice cream."

"…that's the best season. Some argue it was season six but I prefer when Buffy _isn't_ beating the total crap out of Spike. You know, preferences."

Derek looked up at this and dear god if the man kept doing that Stiles was _not _going to be able to keep himself from jumping over the counter and dry humping him into the fridge; with the candle light catching all those little specks of color in his eyes because _no_ of course Derek's eyes couldn't _just_ be green, no, they had to be green with brown and specks of yellow and the faintest trace of blue.

"If I blow out the candle, will you _go the fuck away_?"

Stiles could only respond with an enthusiastic nod because if he opened his mouth, he was going to end up spilling more word babble and really, it wouldn't get him anywhere but kicked out.

Derek sighed, leaned over the candle once more, paused and for a moment, he's eyes crinkled at the edges and a far away look entered them, like he was remembering Laura and his family and all those lost birthdays and memories. Like he was trying to soak up the candle's warmth and pretend for just a minute that the presence of fire didn't only remind him of burning flesh and lost souls. Stiles would like to think he put that look there.

"Make a wish." Stiles whispered before he could forget.

Derek rolled his eyes, finished leaning forward and blew out the candle.


	3. sun-faded photographs

**A/N:…all I want in life now is Stiles as a Winchester. Somebody, please, make that happen.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but I'll settle for the entire cast and then some.**

**xxxxxx**

"He was not dead yet, not exactly – "

- Richard Siken, _Road Music_**  
**

**xxxxxx**

**sun-faded photographs:**

The one of his mom is tucked in at the bottom of his duffle bag and it's bent in all the right places and sun-kissed in all the wrong areas and it's been with him for as long as he can remember.

He used to spend nights kissing that photo over and over, in hopes of resurrecting her because isn't that how it's supposed to be? True love's kiss breaks the curse and sets everything right?

It's the picture he had tucked into his chemistry books on particularly hard days and it's the picture he looked at before he went out to run with wolves because _little red riding hood could never resist for long._

Now, there's another picture tucked into the breast of his jacket and it's a picture that's been folded over and over and has years worth of wear and tear and it's the picture that gets him through the month of May.

It's the picture he wakes up to when the nightmares get to be too much and it's the picture he touches with blood stained fingers when he needs to remind himself _why_ and _this is the reason i dream of teeth._

It was taken one particularly warm winter morning in front of the broken down Hale house and it'd taken over an hour to get all of them still in a relatively unoffending position. Half of them are looking at something else and the other half are the ones getting looked at. It has a sun glare in some spots and a crack down the side and it's tear stained on certain faces.

It's this sun-faded photograph that he wraps into his boots as he picks out his weapons and goes out for some blood.


End file.
